Science Fiction.

When I was a kid, I loathed science fiction, didn't get it, thought it was dumb, etc. It just didn't interest me, and I couldn't understand how or why it interested other people. It scared me, to see aliens in movies (Signs scared the crap out of me; Star Wars was just a fad I had to be a part of). I also happen to love reality television, the delicious ridiculousness of it, the psychological assessments I get to do on the fly. The real vs. the unreal; this is my battle.

Flash forward a few years, and suddenly I'm super into The X Files. I think I even watched Zombieland recently with my teenage pals. I'm becoming more open to the unreal, to the imaginative part of life, and I think it's a good thing. I need more fantasy in my life to balance out the harsh realities I see every day. I need things to take my mind completely away from the day-to-day. I'm even reading Michael Crichton. Good stuff.

I'm avoiding life at the moment, making excuses, ignoring phone calls, hoping that nothing is waiting for me around the corner, hoping no one else will die or get some horrible disease. I just don't know if I can do this whole "getting older" thing. Because the older I get, the more people I love, and then people die. They get cancer. They get old. They get suicidal. It happens.

But I'm tired of it happening, and I'm just done for right now. So yeah, I'm not my most exuberant self, but I'm alive, and I don't have a brain tumor or epilepsy, so I'm trying to find some goodness in that. But otherwise, I'm wishing that I hadn't chosen to let myself love people so long ago, because it hurts to lose them.

So I go thrifting every day. And make apple muffins for breakfast, and hope that life will smooth itself out, because it usually does.

Peace out :)

All is not lost, my dear

Oh man, I've been feeling down for a few days. I don't want to call myself a "downer" however, for fear this name-calling would only plunge me back into ceiling-staring-land (or as it was last night, star-staring-land). And I don't want to be hard on myself, since the temperature plunged overnight, the holidays are fast approaching (oh dear lord), and the director of the CIA is embroiled in scandal. Then there's Hurricane Sandy, legalization of being a pothead in Colorado, and the neverending depression of Obamacare. Need I say more? How can a simple girl like me go on living in all of this chaos?

But then, a dimly flickering light in the darkness: lunch at the Armenian place across the street, filled with fresh pita, tzatziki, and the most wonderful falafel I've had in a long time. Suddenly, the world was right again, my blood sugar normalized, and my days-long freak-out ended.

Peace out mofos :)

Money is nothing.

Vintage Tupperware measuring cups

If we have chosen the position in life in which we can most of all work for mankind, no burdens can bow us down, because they are sacrifices for the benefit of all; then we shall experience no petty, limited, selfish joy, but our happiness will belong to millions, our deeds will live on quietly but perpetually at work, and over our ashes will be shed the hot tears of noble people.

~ Karl Marx

Sometimes, I eat milk chocolate

 

This recent post by Katy over at "The Non-Consumer Advocate" got some heated responses, so much so that she shut down commentary on the post.

I myself have been the recipient of some pretty nasty online communication. It hurts when people are rude because they can be, instead of assuming the best and perhaps beginning some dialogue about their "negative" feelings. I think that people on Katy's blog were generally able to say how they felt, and the conversation was cordial and honest.

I talk about online manners a lot because I work online. Very, very rarely do I get to meet a customer face-to-face, or a reader for that matter, and I have learned time and again how important it is to be literal in one's communication, and kind above all else. Sometimes, it is even appropriate to anticipate problems and address them before they happen.

I admit that this week, I did not respond well to an online overreaction. I was curt and annoyed when someone took offense at something that was in-no-way meant to be offensive. But in the end, I am only reminded that I am also human, and often fail. Sometimes, I eat milk chocolate.

You need some love :)

 
1. Orphans
2. Widows
3. Aliens
4. Prisoners
5. Prostitutes
6. Homeless people
7. Mistresses
8. Foreigners
9. Prophets
10. Foster kids
11. Divorced women
12. Single people

Don't throw 'em away.

Bootstraps, anyone?

 

This story kills me.

People offer us love, and we deny it. People offer us help, aid, and we throw it away, saying we'd rather find it ourselves. I have an image of a toddler in my head, practicing the art of independence-"Do it myself!"

There's a TED talk on vulnerability I'd like to watch today and perhaps respond to tomorrow.

Sometimes I say "yes", when I want to say "no", not because "no" is the right answer, but because I know that I am resisting the love of another person, wanting to avoid attachment. Sometimes we need to accept the love that is offered to us, even if it comes in a form that is unpleasant (e.g. I give my neighbors meat even though I don't believe I should; I buy Hershey chocolate because the man that put up my shelves asked for it, even though I believe that they practice slavery). Sometimes I think we need to take more time to make decisions. Sometimes those decisions will end up bringing us closer together.

And we need eachother. Life is tough, remember?

No one asked for this.

The following statements may make you shudder. I don't know you all that well, so please bear with me. This is a personal thing for every person, a decision that no one does or should make lightly. The decision is whether or not to have children, or more specifically bear children.

When I was a child, I learned about overpopulation, and it seemed like a perfect time for me to decide not to have kids. After all, from my experience, families weren't all that great, so I'd be doing myself and the rest of the world one big favor. Well, I was a kid, a kid without hormones. And now I am an adult, one big grown-up, and boy have things changed. Could I care about overpopulation? Not much.  I figure that a couple won't hurt anyone. But that's not true.

For every child that I bear on my own, I have to raise: feed, clothe, emotionally support, etc. That child, once brought into the world, is in it. They didn't ask to be, but they are, and it will be my responsibility to care for them. Now that's all well and good. I want children. I (hopefully) have the capacity to bear children; great. But just like my vocation, I choose my personal familial set-up based on a higher ethic. I do not only think of myself and my own needs when I bring a child/ren into the world. My faith informs me that I am not an island, and in knowing that, I lose the blasé attitude that what I do doesn't and shouldn't matter to anyone else.

There are children in the world who already need homes, and they aren't all in China, or Ethiopia, or Guatemala. They're around the corner from your house. They're living in a broken foster care system whose only hope is the faithful action of millions. It may not be a childhood dream of mine, but it's the reality I face as an adult. And right now, I'm not in a place to have a child, but when I am, this reality will weigh heavily on my decision.

You can read more here about people who make this same decision, but for other reasons.

For more information about foster-adoption in your area, search with your specific state or county.

Labradors are a pain in the butt

I've taken a lovely weekend off, to watch a Law & Order marathon and celebrate Rosh Hashanah. I haven't done much else, although for the first time in years I went bar hopping last night with my mom and her friend. Wow. I have not been missing a single thing. I did get some sweet potato fries and a nice bruise on my knee, but I left too early in the evening to witness the lovely bar fight that later transpired at the final location. No lessons learned really, just a reminder of a life I have no intention of leading.

I believe that this evening's meal will be vegan, or at least vegan enough for me, so I am looking forward to some sort of tofu matzo ball. I've been ridiculously hungry the past 24 hours. Is it possible that my body recognizes when food is available and turns on the hunger switch? It's possible I suppose, evolutionarily speaking.

Finally, I've been taking a lot of walks with a certain dog who will remain nameless. She's a five-year-old black lab who was never really trained, and doesn't quite know how to live in the world. She also just lost her only canine friend, so she still might be grieving. I look forward to the day when I can have dogs again, but right now I've got enough on my plate. I do not have room in my life to spend my time looking for leaves to wipe up dog poo on the sidewalk, not enough room.

Please, please, don't throw those away

There is a lot of information on the interwebs about recycling shoes. Over the past ten years, I've been sending old running shoes to some place in the Midwest. It feels kinda funny, now that I think about it. I don't know how I got on that kick. I was really into running (ridiculously), so I would wear out a pair of running shoes and send them on to someone who would then send them on to Africa, I believe. This was pre-TOMS, and specifically for running as a sport.

Shoes are very bulky, and if they are synthetic or rubber (Is that synthetic? It grows on trees.), they don't break down in landfills. I've seen a lot more labels lately that boast the shoe's biodegradability. In my dreams, I get to go through landfills in a spacesuit and find stuff that could be recycled (yes, yes, I know that people do this to survive).

You can go here to make your own decision about how to recycle your unwanted shoes. Nike has a large-scale recycling program that breaks down shoes into raw materials to build with.

I know that this is a lot of information for your already overloaded brain, but whatever you do, just don't throw them in the trash. If you need me to come to your house and deal with them, I will (but most likely I will just talk you through the process over the phone, because I'm really busy and you need to be empowered to do it yourself).

2. Rhodesian Memoirs

How I got hooked on Rhodesian memoirs:

1. Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight: I could never stop looking at the author's photo on the back of the book. She's looking out in the distance and her hair is blowing in the wind, and she looks so African.

Until I read this book, I never really understood that White Africans were a significant part of African society and culture (I know; I recently figured out what apartheid means too). Blame it on my conservative background, or on my American education. I just say, there's only so much room in a mind;  and African history isn't exactly a NCLB priority.

So Fuller, the author, is Rhodesian, and the book is about her childhood and growing up in Rhodesia. Her unstable mother serves as the perfect background for Rhodesia itself, with an uncertain path and an uncertain future. Growing up in the midst of a racially-charged civil war is enough to form a person for life, and the book follows Fuller as she navigates her challenging familial relationships and her challenge to live as a white African in a country that now does not exist. The Rhodesian civil war made orphans out of all Rhodesians, and that's why I love reading their books, I think.

2. Out of the Dark: Caine is another woman writer who grew up in Rhodesia. Both she and Fuller lived in Zambia if I recall correctly. They at least both had significant moves in their childhoods, usually because of the war. Caine also has an unstable mother, and an even more unstable childhood. Her life is shaped by her Rhodesian past, and by her gaps in memory from that time.

This can be a difficult read, especially for survivors of childhood abuse, so I recommend it cautiously. Reading this book made me begin to develop an understanding of what Rhodesia was like, and what it means to be Rhodesian, and got me hooked on finding more memoirs. The picture in my head when I think of Linda is her horse, who she loved. I think that would make her smile to hear that.

3. Casting with a Fragile Thread: What does it mean to love a place with your whole heart? This book is by another woman, with another drunk mother, and another broken family. But Wendy Kann's story is more than the sum of her trials. It's about how one can be Rhodesian without Rhodesia, how it feels to be always alone in a world with few others who can even comprehend what your childhood was like, and what it means to be you, all in the midst of terrible loss.

4. When a Crocodile Eats the Sun: Godwin has another book, which is probably a better fit for this list. This book is more about Zimbabwe than it is about Rhodesia, but it's interesting to see how Godwin responds to Zimbabwe, having grown up Rhodesian. His commitment to his parents comes together with his uncertainty about this new country's identity and future, and one begins to wonder when reading about the day-to-day existence of a Zimbabwean, how this is better than what they fought to throw away.

5. Rainbow's End: This is probably the freshest in my mind because I read it most recently, even though that isn't even that recent (maybe last summer, or two summers ago?). St. John, the author, tries to live a normal childhood within a very chaotic and dangerous situation. Her father runs a farm during a time when all farms were under almost constant attack, because most if all the farmers were white and landowners. St. John is also able to paint a picture of how the farmers responded to the violence, and how they survived.

The mere mention of Rhodesia makes me smile. If you have any book suggestions, send them my way. I had a fleeting thought last night that perhaps a year from today, I will be reading piles of books in my free time. It was a very, very nice thought. Maybe a hammock could be involved, or a porch swing; a dog by my side, or some other warm-blooded creature would also be nice.

Discounted NON-local produce

Me at the store, last Saturday morning: "Blueberries? Yes please...Oh no; they're from Canada. Sad face. No thanks...[Two aisles later] Blueberries from Canada on the half-off shelf? Yes please! (zero guilt)"

Local is great. Organic is great. Organic from Canada, or local with pesticides? I have gone through this produce department dilemma many times, hungry, tired, and frustrated. And I'm not alone-there are others. A friend told me the other day that she's stopped caring about food ethics. How can a person care about absolutely everything that comes under this label, and do all of the wonderful things we were made to do, like watch Bachelor Pad and any reality show with the word Kardashian?

So what do people do? People who are imperfect and don't love kale (obviously not me, dear sister; I love my greens). They need to know that just because they don't have a vegetable garden, they aren't going to hell. They need to know that if they eat cheese, Jesus won't cry. They need to know that if they don't ride thirty miles to work on a commuter bike, angels won't lose their wings.

Vegan righteousness is off the charts. That's why I have no vegan friends (Note: If you are my friend, and also happen to be vegan, know that I say this because that is not who you are to me). Because when I'm invited over for dinner, and there happens to be feta on the all-squash casserole, I'm still going to eat it. And if the host wasn't terribly kind and thoughtful and put tofu in the dip instead of yogurt, I'd still eat it. Because people, every single time, are more important than your pious food choices. They're your choices, after all. Own them.

Racisme: Parte Deux

Where I live, people sell food on the street. It gets dark outside, and they park their food cart out in the middle of a dirt corner and set up plastic tables and chairs, and suddenly this once-dead corner is a hot spot.

During the day, men (always men, now that I think about it) ride down the street selling bags of fried pork rinds. It's been a while since I've seen a man with popsicles, but in the town where I grew up, we didn't have men with pork rinds; we had men with paletas. My favorite paletas are strawberry and lime (just water; no milk).

Just a few blocks from my house is a Mexican panaderia and cafe, and while I was walking to Starbucks a few weeks ago for the internet, I passed it and thought, "Maybe I should stop." I still had a mile to go to get to Starbucks, and I was a little motivated by the exercise, but honestly, I didn't have the energy to try a new place.

While reviewing burritos last year, I went down to little Mexico (as I like to call a particular part of town down the street from my school) and walked into a place that I'd always driven by, and looked like it sold food. Wow. They did not want me there. One of the other customers asked me if I was a teacher, because I looked like one. There's no way around that one-that is what I look like, for no other reason than that I'm white and wear glasses. I ordered a rice and bean burrito, and that's what I got: rice and beans. It makes me sad to think about it. There wasn't even any salsa. They just wanted me to get out of there. I made them uncomfortable.

So today, even though this is now my actual neighborhood for the second time, I still feel a bit weird going into a new place by myself, like that panaderia, or a food cart on the side of the road (but not the pork rinds man, because I don't eat meat) not because I'm afraid, but because I don't know what the cultural expectations are. It isn't right that the city is racially and economically segregated, but it is, and I don't want to step on anyone's toes. Even if I dressed and acted differently, I don't think I could ever fit in.

Puttin' it all out there, for now

Sometimes, when a person gets married, we the onlookers are expecting certain things. We expect that the couple doesn't live together. We probably even expect that they've never so much as passionately kissed. Clothes have definitely, without a doubt, never come off. Whether we like it or not, we're all a bunch of Puritans who expect that sex is procreative, that no one has sexual feelings outside of babies, and that no one does it very often.

But we know better, whether or not we're willing to admit it. We know better because we ourselves have experienced all the different parts of sexuality, even if we haven't been willing to admit that to ourselves, or to our closest friends. Hiding it does not make it go away. Sexuality is a part of life. Period.

Today, amongst friends, I admitted to having an extensive sexuality library, courtesy of my profession and my super-thrifty skills. I felt kinda funny after admitting that. Also, in a perfect world, I'd write my graduate thesis on single sexuality, but since it can't be anonymous, that's out of the question. By writing about it, I admit to doing it. I admit to thinking about doing it (i.e. being a sexual person). That may all be too much for most people to bear.

But denying it never did anybody any good. Shame is only healthy in very small quantities, and beyond that, it screws us up so royally, we may as well kiss any good future sex life adieu.

Just because it's complicated doesn't mean you throw it away. Own it. Dust it off. Walk tall.